Father's Eyes
by BizzinElfGirl
Summary: Present day story about the magic mirror from Snow White. Focuses on the girl who finally sees the boy behind the glass and how they heal each other's broken hearts. Rated T for violence, mild swearing, and romance. POV goes between 2 main characters.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: First of all, thank you for reading (and reviewing). The P.O.V. switches back and forth between the two main characters, so be warned. Also, this story involves a LOT of flashbacks and memories, which can be slightly (or more than slightly) confusing. Sorry if I've unintentionally stolen ideas; I've tried to be pretty original. Enjoy!**

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I remember when it all started. I had lost hope by then. After eighty years, who wouldn't? Eighty years and not one girl really looked twice. I would watch them, time after time, and no matter the type, it was always the same. They would, the first time they looked into the mirror, primp, fussing with their hair or makeup, scratching a pimple or tweezing an eyebrow, and then they would finally make eye contact with their reflection, maybe even just to put in their contacts, but it would happen. And for a split second I would dare to hope again. I would watch their face as they frowned and leaned in closer. They had seen me, no doubt about it. They'd seen me staring back. Even if it was just for a second, every one of those girls saw my face. But they would shake it off. It was something they ate, they were still dreaming, they were stressed for an English test, they had a hangover. I heard all the excuses they muttered to themselves under their breath. For eighty years, girls looked at me through their mirror. And for eighty years, the only eyes they let themselves see looking back through that glass were their own. All the girls were like that. All of them, that is, except Andy. I don't know exactly what made Andy different, what made her willing to see me; the person who was so obviously there and yet at the same time nowhere at all. You'd have to ask her that. So I'll let her tell you my story. Though in all fairness, it should be called our story. 


	2. Chapter 1

**Thank you to all who are taking the time to read this story, and many thanks to those who have reviewed. This is the first story I've posted, so comments are much appreciated. ****I've tried to be good about grammar and spelling, but if you notice something that I missed, please feel free to let me know. Thanks!**

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I was in a corner of the library by myself, once more immersed in a book when Sister Anne tapped me on the shoulder. I nearly jumped out of my seat in surprise. I would never get used to being brought abruptly out of my books. The transition from fantasy to reality could never happen too slowly for me. 

"The Headmistress would like to see you in her office Ms. Rink." She said, her mouth a restrained smile. "And I suggest you neaten up a bit. Wouldn't want to get in trouble for violating dress codes now, would we?" She added as she eyed my blouse hanging un-tucked over my wrinkled skirt. Her strict tone didn't reach her eyes, which laughed openly at the fact that dress code violations were the main reason I found myself in trouble. That and being caught looking down at a book instead of up at where I was walking. I stood up hastily, forgetting the stack of notes I had so carefully organized and placed on my lap for safekeeping. I grimaced and picked them up, shoving them in my backpack along with the books on the table and the one still in my hand. "Thank you." I said to the nun, when I straightened up and saw her holding out another scrap of paper I had dropped. She said nothing, simply smiled in response and nodded her head to the hallway that would lead me to the office I had visited many times before.

I wondered what it was that Headmistress had called me to her office for this time. It was too early yet for my usual yearly letter from Father. I shook that thought out of my head.

_No, this year it won't come. Or if it does, it won't say that. Anything but that. _I thought to myself.

_That's the same thing you said last year._ Replied the bitter, pessimistic part of my mind. The hopeful one overruled it again. _No, Father will bring me home this summer. I know it. He told me he would, and why would he lie to me? Besides, I have to go home this summer. The high schools I applied to aren't boarding schools. I'll have to live at home to go to one of them. Father knows that. And he'll do the right thing. I'll be home in June._ The pessimist snorted in disbelief, but retreated once more into the corner to pout and watch from afar rather than argue. _Maybe the Headmistress does want to see me about news from Father. Maybe he sent a letter saying he found someone and he wants to bring me back home at once! Or maybe he didn't find anyone and he'll have given up, and he just wants his daughter back home._ This uplifting and hopeful thought drove me to walk faster down the corridors. The pessimist was shaking her head, knowing she would be the one to comfort my crushed hopes once more when the letter said the same thing it had for the past five years in a row.

Swinging my backpack over a shoulder, I held the last spare piece of paper to my chest with my chin, hastily tucked my blouse in, and tried, unsuccessfully, to smooth my rumpled plaid skirt. I arrived at the spiral staircase at the end of the hall and took a deep breath, shoving the paper I still held into my blazer pocket and stepping up to the first step.

My feet carried the rest of me up the stairs until they stopped suddenly in front of the large oak doors I knew so well. I turned to the mirror hanging on the wall to the left of the doors and grimaced. Headmistress hated ponytails. They were too informal for her liking. I took the fraying elastic out of my black hair, stuffed it into my bag, and ran my eyes over my reflection from bottom to top, stopping when I met my own startlingly dark green eyes. I turned back to the doors, took another breath, and knocked twice.

"Come in." Said a stern voice I knew quite well. I should have, after almost nine years. Nine years, and almost every time I'd been called to the headmistress's office she had been the bearer of bad news. The headmistress was sitting at her desk, hunched over some papers. She looked up when I entered, and her expression changed from a frown to a sad look when she saw who it was.

"Ah. Andrea." I frowned slightly at the name, surprised that she called me by my first name instead of my last, as she usually did. I stood in front of her desk, arms behind my back and replied with a question.

"You summoned me madam?" She nodded.

"Yes. Take a seat." She said, gesturing toward the one chair in front of her desk. "Now, Andrea, I'm afraid I have some rather bad news." She took off her glasses and looked at me with a softened expression. I frowned and wondered what she could possibly tell me now. The pessimist in my head straightened up, getting ready to give her customary _"told-you-so", _when the letter from Father was the same. "Your father has passed away." I slumped in my seat. I hadn't seen my father for almost five years, and yet my heart had suddenly turned to a lump of ice. I tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come out. As if she had read my mind, Headmistress answered the question that had never passed my lips.

"It was a car crash apparently. He was driving while intoxicated." I looked away. I had always known that it would be the drinking that would kill my father. I just hadn't known it would happen so soon. "I'm afraid that's not all. I know you had ambitions to transfer to a different high school next year, but it states clearly in your father's will that the money he left you would be to finish your education here until you are eighteen and have gained your diploma. After that, you can do what you wish with the remainder of your inheritance. And, as you have no living relatives, at least according to your father, you have no other option than to go through with this plan." I blinked, dumbfounded. I had spent the last few months filling out forms, writing essays, and taking tests in order to gain acceptance into a few better schools, and for what? To find out I was stuck here for three more years. I had a bigger chance of attending a good college if I got my diploma from somewhere else. And honestly I was sick of St. Agnes's. I had even stuck through one year of high school here before I decided to try for some other places.

My mouth finally spit some words out; the first ones my mind had been able to put together in a complete sentence.

"Will that be all Headmistress?" I asked as politely as my grief would allow. She nodded and I stood up, turning to leave the door.

"Wait, Andrea." I turned to face her, but my eyes traveled to the window, refusing to meet her sharp hazel ones. "You have my permission to take the rest of the day off. Tonight after dinner we will move you into a different room now that we know for sure you will be staying with us after the end of this year." I nodded and turned away silently. Normally this would have been considered a rude slight that I never would have gotten away with, but she let it pass and said nothing more as I left the room.

My mind was stopped cold, but my heart was on fire. My feet took control yet again and after a few minutes I found myself in front of the main entrance. It was only about three in the afternoon, but it was dark and rainy. Perfect. I pushed through the doors, and ran for a while, tears and rain blending on my face, before I tripped on a tree root and fell, hard, to the ground. I examined my leg, which was suddenly throbbing, and found that I had fallen on a rock and made a formidable gash, both long and very deep. I thought I could see bone, and knew I would probably need stitches. But I didn't move. Finally, the pain on the inside had caught up with the pain on the outside. I let the rain soak through me, hoping to let it numb my body, both inside and out. I just lay there, shivering and sobbing. I couldn't think. Even the pessimist was caught by surprise and remained silent, and for once she and my crushed hopes were in agreement, making up the whole person who now had no one. Everyone who meant anything to me was gone. And even worse, everyone who I meant anything to was gone. I was now leading a meaningless existence.

I'm not sure exactly how long I stayed there in the rain. Minutes, hours, and seconds blended together. Time was just another thing that held no meaning. I don't think I was crying for the whole time about my father. That tragedy had just opened up so many other wounds that had never healed. Eventually, I ran out of tears, and, soaked to the bone, I retreated back to the school. I didn't care that I was freezing cold, or that my clothes were sopping wet. I didn't care that my backpack and everything in it was probably ruined. I didn't even care of how I looked; covered in blood, mud, and water. I stood up, breathing in sharply. My leg had finally stopped bleeding, but even the freezing rain hadn't numbed the pain. I clutched the very rock I had damaged myself on for support, and somehow managed to limp all the way back to the school, despite the dizzying pain and nausea from blood loss.

Literally and figuratively, every single part of me was numb to everything and everyone around me. Except my leg of course, which felt like it was being stabbed every time I took a step. I felt like I was floating, and I merely stared at the floor as I pushed through the double doors once more. I felt the stares of the other St. Agnes girls, but their giggling and whispering fell on ears that no longer cared what they thought. I glanced up at the clock in the entryway. It was almost six o'clock, which was the strict dinnertime, but I had no appetite for either the food or the stares and questions I would be force-fed if I went in the dining room. As floods of girls pushed around me to get through the doors before they slammed shut at exactly six, I pushed back the other way.

At first I thought I should go to the hospital wing. But I had no desire to answer endless questions from an all too nosy nurse, who meant well, but who would probably make me feel worse. I had never talked to anyone about what made me feel sad or scared or alone, and I preferred to keep it that way. So I ignored my common sense, which was telling me that I _needed _to have my leg looked at and walked instead down a familiar path. I made it all the way back to my dormitory before my mind caught up with my feet and I remembered that Headmistress had mentioned moving me to a private room. I stood in front of the door, wondering what to do when Sister Anne tapped me on the shoulder for the second time that day. This time I didn't jump, but turned to face her slowly, processing who it was. She gave me a warm smile, but I wasn't so blind as to not notice the worry in her eyes.

"My poor girl, you must be chilled to the bone! And your leg! What in Heaven's name happened to your leg? We must take you to the hospital wing immediately!"

I opened my mouth to answer, but closed it again. I couldn't find the words. I didn't want to find the words. Speaking any of what had happened that day would have made it too real, too irreversible, for me to handle. So instead of speaking, I merely let her lead me to the hospital. As I had anticipated, Sister Rosemary, the school nurse, asked endless questions about my leg and the "tragedy that had befallen me" while she was cleaning out my leg with a burning liquid. I ignored her and stayed silence, preferring to watch the hydrogen peroxide fizzle painfully in my gash as it cleaned and disinfected. Gritting my teeth, I clenched the sides of the bed against the pain. Eventually, Sister Rosemary gave up and let me be. The only time I spoke was to refuse any numbing agents or pain relief. She gave me an odd look, but, surprisingly, followed my request, even though I had bruised the bone very badly. I was, apparently, lucky not to have broken it. I didn't feel lucky. After she was done sewing me up, I unclenched my teeth and made to get up.

"No, no my dear girl! You mustn't get up yet! With the amount of blood you've lost, it's a miracle you're still conscious! And you are still soaking wet." I hadn't let her change my clothes or put me in a warm bed. I had merely sat down on a bed while she worked on me. And now I didn't change my tune and start listening to her, but merely stood up shakily, supporting my weight on my good left leg, and ignored the ringing in my ears and the dizziness and left the hospital wing slowly. She called after me, but I kept walking. Once again I realized that I had no idea where I was going. So, for lack of anywhere else to go, I made my way slowly and painfully up to the headmistress' office.

I knocked on the door and was invited in for the second time that day. The headmistress looked up at me, bewildered, taking in, I was sure, my wet, muddy, and bloody and all around bedraggled appearance. I stared at the floor in front of her desk. She started to open her mouth to ask a question no doubt, but I interrupted her.

"I am sorry to have disturbed you headmistress. I just don't know where my new room is." My voice was so quiet I was surprised that she heard me at all. She composed herself quickly.

"Yes. I'll call Sister Anne right up and she can lead you to your room. Please, take a seat." She hesitated slightly before offering me a seat, and I guessed that it was because she had no desire for her chairs to be soiled. I ignored her offer, and instead stood in the middle of her room, somewhat awkwardly. She seemed to be at a loss for what to say, and I had no wish to start any conversation. She smiled at me and drummed her fingers on her desk. I concentrated on the sound her nails made when they touched the wooden surface. Plink, plink. Though it wasn't exactly a plinking noise. It was more a tapping. But not quite. I couldn't think of the word for it. I settled on a mix between a plink and a tap before I merely gave up. I threw my eyes around the room, looking for something else to concentrate on, for it was too dangerous to let my mind wander. The rain on the window, the flashing lights on the many machines on the desk, the steady blinking of the computer. Then suddenly she spoke again.

"Oh, I nearly forgot. You have some mail dear." She had never said "dear" before. It felt odd to hear such an, for lack of a better word, endearing term before. Apparently she thought it felt odd too. When I looked up, she was holding out a large stack of envelopes. There were eight in total, seven thick ones and one regular sized one. I determined this all by feel. I didn't dare hope that there would be a letter from my father in it. Perhaps if there was one it would tell me that this was all a nightmare and that he wanted his little girl back.

A thought struck me then, and a lump developed in my throat. I tore stinging eyes away from the headmistress, who looked down at her own desk, feeling that she was interrupting a personal moment for me. I shoved the envelopes in my backpack during another awkward silent moment. Finally, a second knock came from the door, and Sister Anne came in. She made no comment at my still horrid appearance and merely nodded at the headmistress when she gestured at me. She beckoned to me as if I didn't know to follow her. I ignored her slightly condescending ways as I normally did and followed her without a word. The moment we were out of earshot however, she shot off like a rocket.

"Andrea! You're still all wet! Didn't you dry off at all? You must be freezing from being in those wet clothes for so long! Well, you can warm up in your room. We've already had your things moved. If you'll follow me, I'll show you to your new home." My mind shivered at her words. Even though I'd been at St. Agnes's for more than half my life, I'd never considered it a home. No, my home was with Father. It had always been, and it would always be. My pessimist appeared again for a minute.

_He's dead! He's dead and you'll never see him again! _She screamed it at the top of her voice. I could almost see her. She was confused. She didn't know what to feel or think or do, so she settled for retreating back to her corner to sob. My hopeful side was still numb and silent; she had barely even reacted yet. She refused to process what the rest of me was telling her. These two characters, the conflicting sides of my mind, were always there. They had always squabbled for control, at least on things concerning Father. It was as if the hopeful me had grabbed the wheel from the very beginning, leaving the pessimist to become a backseat driver. But now, I wasn't sure who was in control. Both of them were afraid, as I was as a whole. I wondered, as I had many a time before, which of them was the real me, and which one didn't belong. I knew that one of them didn't, and that eventually only one of them would be my conscience; the voice in my head. But for now, as a contrast to how I normally saw them, neither wanted to take the wheel. Which meant that I had no one directing me, leading me, or telling me what to do. One of them had always been there, no matter what, for as long as I could remember. I didn't know what to do now that I didn't have the opinions of these two personalities running through my mind.

I left the confusing region of my mind and let Sister Anne lead me away, not wanting to think anymore about the three years still ahead of me at St. Agnes's, or about my father, or about my conflicting mind. I knew there were only a few other girls who were permanent borders, at least, only a few that lived here year round, and most of them were only here for, at the most, two years, while their parents traveled abroad on business or pleasure. Whatever their story was, not one of them had to live at St. Agnes's for twelve years. Only I was given that particular fate. Anyway, I had, at that point, a rough idea of where the private rooms must have been in the school. This was mostly just because I had had since first grade to explore St. Agnes' and by now I knew where almost everything was. Because of this, I made a mental note of the route Sister Anne led me through, and my mind was already mapping out paths to the dining hall, the library, and my classes.

Eventually, Sister Anne stopped in front of a door that already had a shiny new plaque hanging on it, reading "Andrea Rink." I turned the knob and walked into my room for the first time. It was small, and indeed, my suitcase was lying on the bed that was in the far left corner. The head was against the wall, and by the foot was a door, which I presumed led to a bathroom. Across the room from the bed was a large dresser, over which hung an antique looking mirror. Other than a bookshelf filled with books in a third corner, the room was otherwise empty. I didn't look at anything other than the floor. Sister Anne, after standing in the doorway awkwardly for another few minutes, left without another word. I stood in the middle of the room for a few minutes shivering and dropped my backpack on the floor before I stumbled into the shower in the bathroom, blasting myself with hot water, uniform and all. I hadn't thought I had any tears left, but they came, blending with the steaming water from the shower. I stayed under the water until I no longer felt cold; at least on the outside. Eventually I turned off the shower and huddled under a towel in the bathtub for the rest of the night.

When I woke up I was wet, cold, and I felt raw all over, inside and out. My leg felt horrible, and I could barely breathe steadily for the pain. My heart was tired of beating, my mind was tired of thinking, and my eyes were tired of crying. Opening my eyes, I was confused about where I was for a few minutes before everything connected in my head. Dead father. St. Agnes' for four more years. Private room. Every part of me was still in shock and disbelief. But it would sink in eventually. I had already changed into a clean and dry uniform before I remembered it was Saturday and that on the weekends, I had no classes. I sighed and sat on the edge of my bed, then decided to unpack. I dragged my suitcase off the bed and across the room, dropping it in front of the dresser, and as I straightened up, I looked in the mirror. At first glance, I saw what I always saw in the mirror. Myself. But I didn't look away quickly like I normally did. I had never liked my looks, and so usually avoided looking in the mirror except when I needed to see how messy I looked. For once, I met the eyes of my reflection. And one moment they were the same eyes I've always seen, a very weird and dark shade of green, but then they changed. In the blink of an eye, I wasn't looking at my face anymore.

The eyes I was staring at now were dark blue instead of green. And the face around them was tanner than mine. Blonde hair was cut short around my new reflection's face. He was wearing a different uniform. He was a… he. I cocked my head, frowning slightly, and the pessimist came out of her daze, taking over, for my normal self didn't have the energy needed to deal with strange boys appearing suddenly in my bedroom mirror.

_I must be going insane. _I didn't say this out loud, but to myself. All in all, I took this development well. After all, it made some sense. I was suffering from post-traumatic-stress disorder caused by the news of my father's death. Or maybe I had caught pneumonia from being wet and cold all night and I was having hallucinations. That and the blood loss made perfect sense. I was still staring at the boy. He looked a little older than me, maybe seventeen or eighteen, and he was definitely taller, as he was slightly hunched over to meet my eyes. He was also quite handsome. He looked bored, but he kept looking at me. Finally I spoke.

"What are you doing in my mirror?" I asked calmly. The boy's expression changed from boredom to surprise in the blink of an eye. Though not literally, for he maintained eye contact, even though his eyes lit up immediately.

"You can see me?" He asked quickly, straightening up.

"Well yes. You are right in front of me, though I suppose you're not really." I laughed, and he frowned a bit. "I must be going crazy." I said, laughing even harder. I wasn't sure what to do, and at the moment, it seemed funny that I was seeing some boy in my mirror. His eyes widened.

"No, no, no, no. Don't say that. I don't know why or how, but I'm really here, trapped inside this mirror."

"No," I said, laughing again. "You're trapped in here." I tapped my forehead. "And I suppose I am too." I shook my head and buried my face in my hands. I laughed again, but it was a wet laugh, for I had started to cry again. I turned away from the mirror, walking towards the door that led to the rest of the school. I grabbed my backpack from the floor and slung it over one shoulder.

"Don't go. Please! At least tell me your name." I turned back toward him, and my emotions were all over the place, flashing between angry, hysterical, and God knows what else. I stomped my foot in frustration at the fact that I was letting myself go so over the edge over my father. I hadn't thought it would drive me insane, and here I was, talking to a figment of my imagination. The poor boy must have thought I was crazy, for there I was, stomping my foot, tears streaming down my face, and choking back laughter at the same time. He didn't look like he noticed though, and his eyes were pleading. I wondered for a moment where my mind had conjured his image. I had never seen someone that handsome before. And the emotions swirling behind his dark blue eyes were anything but fake.

"Just your name…" He said quietly, in a soothing, calming tone, leaning close to the mirror. I was scared, and my breathing started to seize up. I didn't know why, but his eyes conveyed a sort of understanding that made it impossible to ignore him. As he watched me, I quieted. I stopped laughing, and my frustration ebbed away. After another few moments, I was just standing there, tears still flowing, and there he was, just watching. I closed my eyes for a moment and sighed, shaking my head slightly as I did so. Finally I gave in.

"Andy. Well, Andrea really, but you can call me Andy. Andy Rink." I don't know exactly what compelled me to say Andy. I hadn't even been called that in over eight years, but it came to mind the instant he asked my name. I watched him when I spoke, and he settled back into the room, stepping slightly away from the mirror.

"Andy. Thank you." He said, and somehow I knew he was thanking me for more than just my name. I nodded, still quiet. My hopeful self emerged again, curious about the boy, though still cautious. _"He doesn't exist."_ Reminded the pessimist. She was ignored.

"What's your name?" The pessimist retreated like she always did. The boy grinned widely, showing off a perfect smile that lit up his equally perfect eyes.

"It's…" He paused, and the smile disappeared, his face falling. _Told you so. _Muttered the pessimist_. I told you he wasn't real. How could he know his name when he isn't real?_ If I could have seen her face, I was sure she would have been smirking._ Oh shush._ I retorted back in my mind. She obeyed, but laughed at me from her corner.

"I… I can't remember." He looked stunned; for the first time his gaze was directed at the ground rather than at me. He stumbled backwards a few feet and sat on the bed behind him. He put his face in his hands, obviously distressed.

I stood there awkwardly for a few moments, feeling sorry for him in the few seconds before I remembered he was a figment of my imagination; a product of my crazy mind. The calm I had achieved before when he had been staring at me disappeared as fast as it had come. I laughed at myself through my sobs, then stomped my foot again; frustrated for letting myself fall apart over my father's death.

The boy looked back up at me, still wide-eyed and despairing. I just looked back at him, trying once more to think of how in the world I had made him up before I gave up, spun on my heel, and left the room, slamming the door behind me.


	3. Chapter 2

**This is the first chapter from soon-to-be-named mirror-boy's POV. Enjoy! Please review!**

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When I first saw her, I thought she would be like any of the other girls who had come in and out of the room in the past eighty years. But then… She surprised me. For the first time in eighty years I was surprised, and all it took was that one question. 

"What are you doing in my mirror?" I almost blinked when those words came out of her mouth. For a moment I didn't realize she was talking to me, but then I noticed how she looked. She had her head cocked quizzically, and her eyes were sharply in focus. Not blurry like the eyes of all those I had seen before. It struck me then that _she_ was significant. While my brain was processing this, I blurted out a response; the first words I had said in eighty years to anyone but myself with the knowledge that they would hear me.

"You can see me?" I straightened up, and now we were off level. I could see that she was a good five inches shorter than me, probably five-five, or maybe five-six. Her eyes were exquisite. They were a dark green emerald shade. I'd never seen their like before, and they had nice shape too. The face surrounding her eyes was equally breathtaking. A small nose, long black hair, full and naturally red lips, and a flawless complexion were just some amazing features. She was ivory skinned, but unblemished. I thought that I had seen her before, somewhere, somehow, but I couldn't place her in my memories. My mind randomly wondered if she had a boyfriend for a split second before her speaking interrupted my thoughts.

"Well yes. You are right in front of me, though I suppose you're not really." She laughed, and I frowned slightly. I had seen a flash of something in her eyes. I was good at reading people's eyes, but hers were almost completely shut off. She hid all emotions behind those big eyes, but I was sure I had seen something there. Grief, pain, anger; I wasn't sure. Then she spoke again; five words that made my heart race and made me start to panic. "I must be going crazy." She laughed again, in a weary way, a way that told me how tired she was of dealing with her life.

"No, no, no, no. Don't say that. I don't know why or how, but I'm really here, trapped inside this mirror." I tried to keep my voice calm and level, but I don't think I managed it, because she fell apart even more.

"No," she said, giving a wet sort of laugh. I watched a tear run down her cheek as she kept talking. "You're trapped in here." She tapped her forehead, trying to convince probably herself as well as me that I didn't exist outside of her head. "And I suppose I am too." She shook her head angrily and then buried her face in her hands, leaning forward with her forehead against her side of the mirror. I wanted to comfort her, but what could I do, as the mere reflection of a boy who once lived. I forgot myself for a moment, however, and stretched out a finger to stroke her forehead. When my fingers only met cold glass I remembered again, and let my hand drop limply to the dresser. She gave another laugh, and then began to cry. I watched a tear that her hands hadn't caught land on the mirror and roll slowly down the length of the glass. I absentmindedly put my finger where the tear would have landed had there been no mirror dividing us; trying to catch a tear that would never go that far. Suddenly she slammed her hand down on the dresser and shook the water out of her eyes. She turned to go, grabbed her backpack, and had closed half the distance between the mirror and the door before I reacted.

"Don't go! Please! At least tell me your name." She stopped, head towards the floor, and then turned slowly to face me, head once again at a cocked angle. Upon meeting my eyes again, however, she gritted her teeth and stamped her foot in frustration. She must have thought she was going over the edge, and I felt a pang of guilt at the fact that I was a contributing factor in this belief. She was crying, choking back laughter and anger at the same time. I tried bringing down the intensity level in my voice, as she was hesitating, swaying back and forth unconsciously between the door and me.

"Just your name…" I spoke in the most soothing, calming voice I had, leaning so close to the mirror that my nose was almost touching the glass. I had one hand placed on the glass, putting a slight pressure on it so I could lean forward. In all her blended emotions, I could see that the invisible guard she had around her eyes had fallen momentarily again, and I noticed panic. I could now see all of her, from the shoes, to the bandages on her leg, to her breathtaking face. I could see her chest moving quicker, and she seemed like she was coming close to hyperventilating. I made no more movement and said nothing, just watched her, trying to convey sympathy in my gaze. While I watched, her breathing slowly ebbed to a normal rate, and she stopped laughing. Soon all that was left were the tears still streaming steadily down her cheeks. I remember being in awe of how her eyes were not red or puffy at all, despite her crying. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, sighing. I noticed a slight shake of the head, and I knew that she was giving in. She looked down at the floor; then met my eyes. Her tears were slowing.

"Andy. Well, Andrea really, but you can call me Andy. Andy Rink." I smiled slightly, relieved not only that she had told me her name, but that I had seemed to calm her down. She still looked scared; or was it worried? But I was just grateful. This was the first time I had really met someone new in around eighty or so years.

"Andy." I spoke her name, trying it out in my mouth. It felt good to say someone's name, even though it was someone's whom I had just met and had practically scared to death. "Thank you." I wasn't just thanking her for the name, but for so much more. For seeing me, and giving me a chance, instead of just pretending I didn't exist like all the others. I thought about how pathetic those two words were for describing my gratitude, but they were all I had. And she seemed to accept them. Indeed, she even seemed to understand that they were for more than just a name.

After a few moments of us looking at each other, she broke the silence and once more, surprised me most pleasantly.

"What's your name?" She asked, seeming genuinely interested. I broke into a huge grin, one of the kind that I hadn't shown in decades. I eagerly jumped to answer her. "It's…" I hesitated, and my smile disappeared as fast as it had come. Why couldn't I remember? It was my name! I searched my mind frantically, as if I were falling but grasping at smooth cliff sides. I found no handhold and fell. "I… I can't remember." I admitted. I was stunned. I finally broke my gaze at her and stared at the ground, coming away from the mirror as I did so. I stumbled backwards a few feet, coming to sit on my bed. I stared at my feet, and then put my face in my hands. After a few moments, I heard Andy move stomp her foot on the ground, and it seemed as though the calm I had helped her gain had disappeared. She started to sob again, and laughed. I looked back up at her in desperation. She just stared at me. Soon though, she gave up, turned her back on me, and practically dashed out of the room, slamming the door behind her so hard the mirror shook, as well as her bookcase.

I watched the door close on her retreating back. Then I realized what her leaving could mean.

"God dammit!" I stood up and kicked the bedpost. "My one chance; the first person whose seen me _and_ talked to me in 80 years and I blew it! She thinks she's crazy!" I was talking to myself, something I'd gotten quite used to by now. After all, what else was I supposed to do? I stormed around the room for a few minutes before my anger gave way into hopelessness and depression. I'd lost a lot of things over the years, so much that I didn't remember my life as I once lived it. Sure, my life was still there, in my mind, but as faint as a memory of a memory. Even so, I'd never expected to forget my name. The more I thought about it though, the more it made sense. After all the only way I'd been able to keep track of how many years had gone by was by carving a small line into my bookcase after each day. But even that wasn't exact because of all the days I had forgotten or just hadn't done it.

I sat back down on the bed and put my head in my hands. It was almost funny. As impossible and unlikely as it seemed, I didn't know the name of the only person I'd interacted with in all those decades: myself. I started to laugh, and as I sat there, I tried to think of the last time I really had laughed. It was fruitless. Nothing came to mind.

That made me think about my name again. I stopped laughing. Closing my eyes, I dropped my hands and hung my head. I was bent over, feet on the floor, hands clasped and hanging limply by my shins, head between my knees. After a few minutes I opened my eyes and straightened up. Putting my hands on my knees, I stared at the knuckles of my right hand, which were scarred slightly. This led me to open my hand and trace my fingers for the billionth time over the still pink and new looking scar that ran across the length of my palm. Though it, as well as the scars on my knuckles, looked as though whatever had caused it had happened recently the scar was one more mystery to me. I stared at it for another few minutes, and closed my eyes, trying to remember, trying to get hold of the story that lay just before me.

Tears running down my face, blurring my vision. Anger filling my whole mind and soul; blinding my common sense. The shattering of glass and the sting as my knuckles tore and began to bleed. A piece of the glass on the dresser embedded in my palm when I slammed my open hand down on the dresser. Pain throbbing and blood flowing from the wound when I ripped the shard out. I could see it, feel it, hear it. I was living it. Then, blackness. No more sounds or thoughts or sights. No more senses. A knock.

"Nate? Can I come in?" This was a girl's voice. One that I hadn't heard in a long time but that sounded strangely familiar, as if from a dream that I could barely recall. I heard a voice now, and this time it came from me, but I wasn't putting the words together. It was as though I was in the backseat watching someone else drive.

"Yeah. I guess so." When she spoke next, she seemed to ignore my words. I registered it, but the person who was driving seemed not to.

"Nate, I know you must feel really hurt and confused right now. But just talk to me. Talking always makes you feel better, I know you! That's what you need right now, someone to talk to. And I'm right here Nate, just like I've always been."

"Grace, you can come in. I already said that. And you're right. I need to talk about this. So come in and we can talk." The voice coming out of my mouth sounded choked with tears, but I wiped the tears out of my eyes. I felt more wetness, however, when the blood still coming from my hand was smeared across my face. While Grace, the girl, kept talking, I re-wiped my face with a handkerchief and then wrapped my cut in it. But it wasn't really me doing it. I was just watching, not commanding those hands to do anything.

"Nate, just answer me. Can I come in or not? Look, I have to go pretty soon, curfew is coming up, so can you just come out or let me in? We don't _have_ to talk about it if you don't want to, I just thought you would." I was speaking again. "Grace, I said come in! Stop joking around, I really need you right now. I watched as I walked over to the door and tried to open it. It wouldn't budge. I started yelling. On the other side of the door in the reflection of the mirror Grace was yelling too. "Nate! All right, I'm coming in now, whether you want me to or not."

The door opened. But it was the wrong door: the door on the other side of the mirror. A girl walked in. Grace. Grace was her name. Now I was putting the name together with the person, and though I still didn't really remember who she was, her blond hair and blue eyes were familiar, as well as the good looks. She looked around the room, but saw no one. I witnessed myself walking up to the dresser and banging the glass of the mirror, trying to get through. I was yelling again; yelling her name again and again. Then she started yelling too.

"Nate?!? Where are you?!? Why is there blood on the floor?!? Nate!" She was frantically searching now; surveying the entire room, including under the bed and in the bathroom. Though the me who was driving had no idea what was going on, I knew that no matter how hard she looked she wouldn't see me. And that she wouldn't hear me either, for who can hear a boy who's been turned into a reflection. She began to cry, and she went from frantic straight to hysterical.

"Nate! Nathan!" She screamed, falling to her knees and sobbing on the floor. I was slamming my entire weight against the glass and yelling at the top of my voice even though my voice was already growing hoarse. I wanted to stop myself, to say that there was no use, but even as I tried to think this thought as loudly as it is possible to think, the picture started to fade away. Colors were dissolving into blackness, and the noises were echoing into mere murmurs. I tried to focus my eyes on the blurring images and listened as hard as I could, but it was too late. Everything was slipping away. Then it was gone, and all that was left was darkness.

When I woke up, I was breathing heavily. I found myself on my bed, staring at the ceiling. My hand was searing with pain and I had to look twice to make sure I wasn't bleeding again like that boy I had imagined as myself. Sure enough, the scar looked the same as it always did; pink and new. I sat up, rubbing my hand absentmindedly and trying to shake away the murkiness of confusion swirling in my head. I had had many odd dreams throughout the year, but none had been so vivid. And I had never imagined myself in someone else's head. As if they were actually… me. But it was a dream, only a dream, and anything can happen in dreams. It had to be just a coincidence that it was my room that I had dreamt of, and I didn't really ever know that girl Grace. She wasn't real. And neither was that boy. I blinked a few times. It had felt so real. But it couldn't be. It had to be a dream. It couldn't be… a memory. Could it?

No. Impossible. If I couldn't remember my name, I sure couldn't have remembered that. I was probably just so desperate for some trace that I actually existed at one point as a living human being that I made it up. The stress from meeting that girl and then thinking that she was my one chance and I blew it probably threw me into grabbing at fantasy. It was just a coincidence. Purely a coincidence that I thought it was really me in the dream. If it had been me, then I would have known what was going on and I could have controlled myself. But I hadn't been controlling that boy. I was just dreaming that I was in his mind, seeing through his eyes, but that was the extent of it. I sighed. I wished that it was a memory, but it was too bizarre. I had been thinking and wondering about the scar for years but that had never happened before. Which meant that it really was a coincidence. Nothing had changed; I hadn't remembered anything, and it was all fake.

Then I thought about the girl. Grace. Could I really have dreamt that feeling of recognition? That connection? I didn't think so, but if you can feel terror in a nightmare or happiness in a good dream, then why couldn't you feel recognition in a dream? It made some sense. More than the memory theory anyway. But it went beyond recognition. I _knew_ I had seen her before. Maybe in another dream perhaps. My mind still wasn't accepting the plausible dream theory. I stood up, rubbing my right palm with my other hand. The answer was at the tip of my mind, but just out of reach at the same time. Where _did_ I know her from? Why did she seem so familiar? I sighed, leaning over the dresser to rest my forehead on the cool glass. I watched my breath fog up the glass, and then switched my gaze to where the girl in the dream, if indeed it was a dream, had seemed so vividly to be crying on the floor.

Could it have been a memory? I didn't think so, for like I had proved before, nothing had changed with the scar, or anything. Now it seemed to be worse, for I couldn't even remember my name. Then I remembered the one thing that was different. Andy. Something clicked then, as I stared at the door both Andy and Grace had walked through. What if Andy had triggered something in my brain? She was able to see me and talk to me, so why couldn't she have unearthed some far away memories? Had she unlocked a door I had shut over eighty years ago? Could it be possible that my dream really wasn't a dream? Indeed, I had taken an instant liking to the girl, probably because of her eyes. Those deep, amazingly colored eyes. I had never seen any like them. But, then again, even if I had, I probably just didn't remember.

As I thought about her eyes, my mind flashed back to the odd feeling I had had when we first made eye contact. It was an almost electrical connection, but not quite. Suddenly I knew something for sure. It was a memory. It was a confusing and puzzling memory, but it was real. Which meant that Grace, the girl in the dream, was real. And that I really did know her at one point. And that meant that the boy she was calling for was… me.

Just as this stunning new piece of information clicked in my head, something else clicked. Literally though, not just figuratively. I stood up straight and looked at the door through the mirror. Indeed, I could see the lock turning and realized that the clicking noise was the sound of the key fitting neatly into the deadbolt lock. When Andy walked back in the room she looked considerably better than she had when she left. Her eyes weren't quite as red-rimmed as they had been, and it seemed as though the storm of emotions she had been going through had quieted. This calm demeanor, however, quieted when she looked up and saw me looking back again. When we made eye contact, for it was clear that this was in fact eye contact, my first thought was that at relief that she could still see me, which meant that I still had a shot of convincing her I was really there. My second thought was triumphant, and without a third, my mouth opened and I blurted out that second thought.

"My name's Nate."


	4. Chapter 3

**Back in Andy's POV. This chapter is kind of weird. **

**I'm not sure how soon I'll be able to update, so to anyone actually reading this, sorry if it takes a while. I'll try to put the next chapter up soon.**

* * *

I guess I left the room thinking that a walk would clear my head. I was severely mistaken. 

The other St. Agnes girls were scattered in groups throughout the building. It did make sense that clusters of all ages were together, for not only was this Saturday, when we all had no classes, but there was really nowhere else for us to go. The only thing within walking distance of the school was the city library, and no one but bookworms went there. Like me. And although some girls had signed permission forms from their parents allowing them to travel around freely, most parents, my father included, either had no time to worry about it, or didn't want their darlings to get lost or kidnapped, or worse, in the city.

So, most kids, ranging in age from six to eighteen, just lounged around the common rooms and hallways of the main building. There were a surprising amount of borders at St. Agnes. The school was pretty bad (okay, kind of terrible) educationally, but it was one of the only all girls board schools that offered classes for 1st graders all through high school.

Even among all these grades, ages, and cliques, I was alone. I had no place at St. Agnes, and in fact, I was teased pretty badly. Most of the girls my age were in one popular clique that contained the beauties. I definitely didn't belong with them, but they did their best to make me even more miserable than I was. Bookworm, orphan, brainiac. These were a few of their nicer titles for me. I don't think one of them ever actually called me by my actual name. And even though I wasn't an orphan, I didn't bother to correct them. After all, with a dead mother and a father who was too busy to take care of me, I was as close to an orphan as I could get. Or so I had thought.

After a few minutes of wandering aimlessly from room to room I grew weary of the giggles and stares from the other girls, so I decided to go to the only place that was mine, or as good as. The library, but not the one at St. Anges'. That one was filled with practically empty shelves that could never hope to be filled, and the chairs were hard and wooden. All in all, it was dusty, small, and poorly stocked. No, I went to the public library. As I mentioned before, it was the only place close enough to walk to from the school, at least, the closest place minors were allowed.

_Yes_. I thought. _The library is where I'll go._ It had comfortable and cushy armchairs, and what seemed like millions upon millions of books. Plus no one from school went there. So I headed back up the stairs to the Headmistress' office once more, and knocked on the door.

"Come in." Said the strict voice of the Head. She looked more weary than usual and when she finally looked up at me from her desk, she seemed surprised. "Why Ms. Rink! What is it? Is there a problem with your room?"

For a moment I considered asking her if I _could_ switch rooms so that I wouldn't even have to worry about seeing things in that mirror, but then my pessimist side took over for a bit. _If you ask to switch rooms you'll have to tell her why and then she'll think you're crazy! Remember, he doesn't exist; it's all in your head! If you tell her about it, she'll think you're crazy and when you try to show her, she'll know you're crazy! Do you want to end up in a loony bin?_ Because of these thoughts rampaging through my head, it took me a minute and Headmistress clearing her throat until I remembered to say what I had actually come to say.

"No Headmistress. There is no problem. The room is lovely. It's just that I was wondering if I could go to the public library. I just need some peace and quiet, but I thought I should get a pass first." I watched as her worried expression changed to a sympathetic one.

"Of course. It _is_ Saturday, so I see no reason why you shouldn't. I'll write you up a pass right now." I let out an inward sigh of relief. I had been sure she would send me back to the school nurse, and I wouldn't have been able to bear that. She was probably comforted by the fact that I was wearing a fresh uniform and I looked much closer to halfway decent then I had the night before after coming inside. The Headmistress rummaged in one of her desk drawers for a moment before she pulled out a stack of slips. Filling one out, she spoke again.

"So have you read those letters I gave you yet? A few looked like letters from those high schools you applied to, and I think one of them was from your father. He must have written it before he passed away." I must have looked shocked, for when she finished signing my slip and looked up at me she continued. "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. Pretty lucky though that you actually got hold of it. He sent it just in the nick of time." I considered this. I was staring at a stain on the wall past her desk and kept right on staring until the excusal pass was practically shoved under my nose.

Headmistress went back to her desk and I took this as a dismissal. A letter from Father? A shiver that had nothing to do with cold ran down my spine as I thought of how the last thing he may ever have written was separated from me by less than a quarter inch of backpack fabric. I tightened my hold on a strap of my pack as I showed my pass to the front door monitor and signed my name and the time on the checkout sheet.

I was afraid to look at my letters, but at the same time, I was afraid of losing them. Thankfully, I didn't have to think about where I was going, for by now my feet knew the way. My mind was racing. What had started as a feeble joke was now hope. My mind raced with the possibilities the letter from my father held. Before long I had arrived at the library. I found myself a suitably private corner with a chair I could sit in.

My fingers trembled as I opened my backpack and took the envelopes out from it. I did more than just glance at them and finally let myself register the words printed on the corners. As I had thought before, there were eight. Seven of them appeared to be from different schools, like the Headmistress had said, but the eighth… I had looked at each of them slowly and I finally got to the penultimate letter. Fingers that shook took it and put it at the bottom of the stack. And there, lying on top of all the rest was the standard sized envelope. There it was, the familiar handwriting, the return address I still had memorized hoping that eventually I would live there once more. My heart raced as I turned the envelope over in my hands.

By now, I had come to associate letters from Father with bad news. But he was dead. What could this letter possibly contain that would make me feel worse? Still, I hesitated. If it did somehow make things worse, I didn't think I could handle it. I finally decided to open it and slid my thumb under the flap of the envelope. Taking a deep breath, I started to draw my thumb slowly across the paper, but before I got even a quarter of the way there, someone spoke, causing me to jump. The paper sliced my thumb open, and I bit my lip. I hadn't heard what the stranger had said, and so as I looked up, I spoke.

"What? Sorry. I was… distracted. What did you say?" The boy now standing in front of me chuckled.

"No problem. I'm sorry I startled you. I just asked if I knew you. You look familiar. And by that I mean that I normally take the time to introduce myself to all the hot chicks I see." He laughed at himself. I wasn't sure why. I hadn't thought what he said was particularly funny or clever. I looked him over. He was handsome, and his clothing and appearance showed he did everything he could to enhance that. He was tall, and he wore a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt, both tight, so I could see muscles under his shirt. His eyes were so dark brown that they seemed almost black, and his hair was the same color, though it was gelled to look casual, which was kind of a paradox. Tan skin showed he spent a lot of time in the sun.

"Hello? Did you… not hear me again?" He waved a hand in front of my face as he spoke. I shook my head, clearing it.

"Oh, sorry. I heard you. No, I don't believe we've met." He flashed me a dazzlingly white and straight smile.

"Well, I must do my best to rectify this tragic situation, mustn't I?' I'd never heard a boy say "mustn't I" before, and it felt weird. "I'm Bryce Fisher. I go to the high school in town." I felt awkward sitting while he was stooping over me and I hurried to stand up, forgetting about the envelopes. I flushed pink and he gave me another grin. It startled me again. I had seen boys give that sort of smile to girls before, but never to me. He helped me pick my stuff up, but he held on to one of the thicker envelopes.

"Wow… It looks like the private high schools are just clambering over one another to get you, huh? Andrea Rink…" Bryce dangled the letter under my nose, and I tried to snatch it, but he whisked it away and gave a small snicker. Then he stopped, pausing in thought. "Wait a minute. Rink? Andrea Rink… Come here for a sec." He grabbed my hand and pulled me to the front counter of the library. Instead of standing in front of it, he went behind and logged onto the computer with one hand, still holding mine with his other. "I knew you seemed familiar! I see you in here just about every day!"

I had never seen him before, or at least, I'd never noticed him before, and I was looking at the computer screen which had the records of every book I'd ever checked out from that library, and I wondered whether or not we were allowed to even be behind the desk or not. I finally looked away from my name, blinking on the screen, and at Bryce.

"I'm sorry, I've never seen you before… Do you come here often?" I felt a little embarrassed at the fact that he recognized me but I couldn't have picked him out of a crowd as someone I'd ever seen before in my life. He laughed again.

"Ya, I work here. Sorry I haven't introduced myself earlier. You're just always reading or studying or picking up books. You're kind of off in your own little world, ya know?" I blushed scarlet. He snickered again. My hand was still in his, and I still wasn't sure what that meant or whether or not I wanted it to be there. He cocked his head at me, seeming to be weighing a decision in his head. He eventually seemed to make up his mind though, because he spoke again after the awkward silence I hadn't dared fill up with chatter.

"Hey. Do you wanna go out sometime?" I gave up staring at the floor and looked up at him, shocked.

"Go… out?" I finally said. My nervous squeak of a voice made him laugh.

"Yeah, 'go out.' You know like dinner and a movie, a school dance… A date?" I stared harder. I had so little experience with guys it wasn't even funny. And here was this incredibly handsome guy who I barely knew who was holding my hand and asking me out. On a date. Me! My heart was beating so fast I would swear he heard it. He laughed again. I wasn't sure if he was laughing at me or with me, to encourage me.

"Andrea? You still there?" He waved our linked hands in front of my face, then when he got no response he squeezed my other hand. The realization that he was now holding both of my hands shook me out of my daze. I must have looked shell-shocked though, because he laughed again. "If you have a boyfriend or just don't want to, that's cool. I've just never seen you here _with_ anyone, if you know what I mean, not that the library is where you take a date, so I figured… Anyway, it's clear you're not interested, seeing as you're still just staring at me blankly with a kind of horrified expression. But it's better to ask right?"

He let go of one of my hands and shook the one he hadn't dropped yet. "It was nice to have met you. And don't worry. I'll try again. I never let this good of a catch get away. You tell that boyfriend of yours he's got some competition" Then he dropped my hand, which was sort of tingling, and started to turn away.

"Wait." I spoke suddenly, and he turned back towards me. "I… am… Interested I mean. I don't have a boyfriend. I'm just… not used to being asked out. But I…" I trailed off lamely and Bryce smiled again.

"Great. I guess I caught you off guard. So… You've never been asked out before? I find that kinda hard to believe" He was looking at me skeptically. I gave him an equally skeptical look.

"Well, I haven't really had many… that is, any, opportunities. I've been going to an all girls boarding school for the past nine years." He whistled.

"Wow. I'm glad I came along then. I would hate to have you go off to college before you dated anyone. And me, I'm just the perfect one to date." I laughed a little nervously. "Ah, who am I kidding. I'd just regret if _I_ went off to college without seeing you outside of this library." He grinned widely. "So, if you've never dated before, maybe we should start a bit slower. A cup of coffee maybe?" I nodded.

"A cup of coffee sounds great." He smiled.

"Alright, how bout now?" He offered, smirking.

"Now?" His smug grin grew. "Um…" My mind trailed to where else I had to go, but, as I wasn't sure I _ever_ wanted to go back to that room, let alone right then, I nodded again. "Sure. I don't have any plans, so sure." I fumbled with my envelopes, taking them off the counter and counting them three times to make sure I hadn't dropped any in the transfer that Bryce had made from my hands to the counter. He held out the one he had kidnapped earlier with a smirk, and I gave a nervous smile as I shoved them all into my bag. He grinned again and offered me his arm in a mocking way.

I didn't take it, but it made me laugh, and after we had gotten out of the library, he closed the foot of distance between us and took my hand. I had never been anywhere except the library before, so I was relieved that Bryce seemed to know his way around. The town was nice, albeit a little crowded for my liking. I wanted to keep my head down so people wouldn't notice me, but I was too captivated by the sights I had never bothered to see. We passed a park, where kids were swinging from monkey bars and screaming with mirth as they chased each other. Bryce pointed out his school with our joined hands, and swore when he realized that the baseball team was practicing on the field.

"Shit, I'm on the team. I should be there right now." He stopped, and seemed like he was considering what he should do. He seemed to be bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, and finally he spoke again.

"Look, I'm sorry, but I really need to be at practice. I've already got two warnings for skipping, and if I miss one more than I'll get kicked off the team." I nodded, not sure whether I should feel relieved or disappointed. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pen. "Well, it was good to meet you anyway, and don't think I'll just give up. Call me when you've got some free time, and I'll take you out." As he spoke, he wrote his number on the back of my hand. I nodded, and suddenly he was close. Too close. He bent down so our faces were level, and my breathing came quicker. He reached up to put a hand on my cheek, and as he did so a memory flashed through my mind.

I remembered those words, all those words, and the pain as I was slapped across the face. I was curled up, hugging my knees to my chest, ears plugged, eyes squeezed shut, but I couldn't block out the shouting. My cheeks burned again and again, and then my scalp as my hair was pulled viciously so my head was tilted upwards. My hands fell limply to the floor, but my eyes remained shut.

"Look at me you worthless piece of shit, LOOK AT ME! It's your fault, it's all your fault!"

"NO!" I screamed, both in the memory and out loud. I was brought back to the present with a jerk, and I found myself about a yard away from Bryce, who stood still, looking dumbfounded. My breathing was heavy, and I saw that my scream had caused people to stare at me, as well as causing a flock of pigeons to take off suddenly. I was caught in a flurry of wings, and before Bryce could say anything or come close again, I turned and ran.

The last shout I had heard in my memory echoed in my ears again and again. My leg was on fire as I ran, but I didn't care. Why now? Why after all these years did that memory come up again? More words echoed through my mind, and I clapped my hands over my ears, trying to block it all, trying to make it go away. I found the park I had noticed before and ran into it. I tried to focus on the real things all around me instead of the pictures and voices in my mind.

Squirrels were running up and down tree trunks, songbirds flitted from branch to branch; searching for a good perch. I sat on a bench in a grove of oak trees. It had been so long since I had had a flashback like that. I closed my eyes and rolled my neck, slowly getting my breath even. I shut out all the negative thoughts and cleared my mind. I stared at the number on my hand, and then settled for going through patterns in my head. I recited the Fibonacci sequence in my head. 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144… After I had reached 1597 I stopped, and switched to powers of two.

I had forgotten how calming my numbers were, and within another ten minutes, they filled my mind, and I got up. Nothing odd had happened. I had met Bryce, he had tried to take me to coffee, he went to practice, told me to call him, and then I left. No flashbacks, recollections, memories. My mind was calm once more. I was even able to find my way back to the library, and from there I went back to the school.

I kept my head down as I walked through the halls, though my mind was more open than usual. I counted the number of times the old wooden floors squeaked as I went through the airy hallways. I noted where there were skid marks on the floors, and where different types of stain had been used. The different colored floorboards passed beneath my eyes, and by the time I had reached my door, I had counted that the floors had squeaked 73 times, there had been fifteen skid marks, and approximately nine different stains had been used.

I stopped in front of my door, and ran my fingers over the bumps and scrapes in the wood. I turned the doorknob, flinching at the feel of the cold metal on my hand. My key made a grating sound as it slid into the top lock, and I entered the room. I shut the door behind me and looked around the room again, really looked, noting where the walls had been repainted to cover writing. Finally, my eyes went to the mirror, praying that I would only see myself. No such luck. When the boy realized that I saw him, he spoke, blurting out words without a second thought.

"My name's Nate." I groaned, and the calm I had gained evaporated. I wanted to fly into a tantrum, raging and screaming, but I didn't want to have anybody come to the room in curiosity. It was bad enough that I knew I was going mad, but I really didn't want anyone else to find out. I dropped my backpack and sat on the bed, which bounced a bit. I grabbed a pillow and held it tight against my face so that it muffled my yell of exasperation. When I stopped yelling, I pulled the pillow down enough that I could see more than the flowery embroidery on the pillowcase.

The boy was still there, watching me. He looked cautious, as if he didn't want to make any sudden movements, for fear of scaring me. I sighed and squeezed the pillow to my chest, avoiding his steady gaze and instead staring at his left ear.

"What?" I finally asked, a tad bit defensively. "Do you have something else to say, or are you just gonna stand there staring at me?" He blushed a bit.

"Sorry. You're just the first person who's seen me in around eighty years." I laughed. "What's funny?" He asked. Now it was his turn to be defensive.

"Oh, just the fact that you didn't know your own name until a minute ago but you know how long you've been stuck behind my mirror. My imagination is quite crazy, huh?" He sighed.

"Look, I know you think I don't exist, but please, please, believe me. I'm not a figment of your imagination. I'm really here. I don't know why, but I am. And I only know how long I've been here because I make a scratch in my bookcase every day. See?" He gestured at his bookcase. Sure enough, there were thousands of notches on it. They just about covered the entire surface of the wood. I looked over my shoulder at my bookcase, which, though aged and dusty, had not a single notch on it. That's when I noticed the differences between my room and the room through the mirror.

My furniture was old and weathered, while, with the exception of the bookcase, his matching set looked brand new. The books lining his shelves were in a different order than mine, and while many of my books had yellowed and crinkled pages, his collection was in a much better state. Then I finally thought of how long he said he had been there. Why wasn't he… old?


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: Phew. I finally got this chapter done and uploaded. This is a shorter one, but I've found that the chapters from Nate's perspective tend to be shorter. That's probably because Nate doesn't have as many emotional issues to write about. At least, not that he can really remember at this point in time. I'm hoping to get chapter 5 up by the weekend, but I don't know if that'll happen or not. Ugh. Homework. That thing I should be doing now. Oh well. Please read, review, and enjoy! Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, or even just taken the time to read this story, and please, if you have a minute, I'd love any and all input.**

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"My name's Nate." The instant I said it, I regretted it. Indeed, Andy groaned, dropped her backpack on the floor, and sat on the bed roughly. She looked like she was holding something in, and as a matter of fact, a moment later she was screaming into a pillow. I wanted to laugh a bit, for there was something about how she screamed into the flowery pillow that was almost comical. Eventually she stopped, and let the pillow drop a few inches so she could see. 

I wasn't exactly sure what I should say next. I wanted to apologize, but I didn't know exactly what for. I didn't want to do or say anything that would make her freak out or anything. I noticed that she was quite purposefully not making eye contact with me. In fact, it looked as though she was concentrating on my left ear. I unconsciously lifted a hand, about to cover it, before I realized that would mean to her that I knew exactly what she was doing. Finally she broke the awkward silence.

"What?" She asked. Her tone was slightly defensive, and I could tell she was uncomfortable. "Do you have something else to say, or are you just gonna stand there staring at me?" I felt color rush to my cheeks and realized that I hadn't felt embarrassment like that since I was alive.

"Sorry." I said. "You're just the first person who's seen me in about eighty years." She laughed slightly, but it sounded like she was on the verge of sobs again. "What's funny?" I practically snapped it at her.

"Oh, just the fact that you didn't know your own name until a minute ago but you know how long you've been stuck behind my mirror. My imagination is quite crazy, huh?" I sighed, trying not to lose hope.

"Look, I know you think I don't exist, but please, please, believe me. I'm not a figment of your imagination. I'm really here. I don't know why, but I am. And I only know how long I've been here because I make a scratch in my bookcase every day. See?"

She considered what I said for a moment, looking first at my bookcase, then at her own. She appeared to have an epiphany then, and after a few moments of looking back and forth between my room and hers, she opened her mouth as if to ask a question, but then closed it again, frowning.

I guessed what she was going to ask, so I asked for her. "You want to know why I'm not really old, don't you?" She looked up, surprised, mouth open slightly. I tried to laugh. It didn't work. "I'm only a reflection Andy. And reflections only change when the thing they reflect does. This room that I'm in is a reflection of the room you're in as it was about 80 years ago. I'm a reflection of the person I was 80 years ago. Nothing ever changes about this room. I can rearrange furniture only to have it be in exactly the same position the next morning. I can smash that mirror, only to have it whole and perfect again within mere hours. I redo those marks on the bookshelf every single day. I've been here about 29,000 days, and there's not much else to do. I've read these books over and over; I've written on the walls, I've done everything that's possible to do in this room. I never get older, or hungry, or thirsty, because the me that was human doesn't exist and therefore doesn't do any of those things. I live, if you can call it that, in a world where the only thing that changes is what I see through this window."

I stopped, overcome with emotion. I had never said that to anyone before. Andy had slid off the bed and was now sitting on the floor, forehead resting on her closed fists. I worried for a moment that I had been too intense. Finally, after what seemed like hours, she lifted her head to look at me. She was biting her lip, and she just looked tired.

"But this is… crazy. So this mirror is… So you are…" She closed her eyes and shook her head slowly. "Why could I see you then? Why hasn't someone found you before? They could help you…" I was going to respond, but she cut me off, muttering under her breath. "What are you doing Andy? It's not real." She began to rock back and forth on the floor, arms holding her knees to her chest tight. It was almost heartbreaking to watch, and I found myself wishing that I could undo it; that I could make it so that she hadn't seen me at all.

"I'm sorry Andy." She stopped rocking and jerked her head up. As our eyes made contact again, I got that flash of emotion. It scared me. There was so much hidden behind those eyes, and even though I had only caught a glimpse of it, I wondered how someone could keep all that emotion pent up. Grief, neglect, terror, guilt, these were just the tip of the iceberg.

"I'm sorry." I said again. "I don't know why you can see me, but I'm here. I'm really here. What can I do to prove it to you?" She looked startled when I asked her that, and she thought for a moment. When she spoke, it was in a voice much calmer than I had expected.

"Tell me how you got there. In the mirror I mean." I took a deep breath. Her gaze was unwavering, and it was my turn to look away, embarrassed.

"I don't really…" She cut me off. "Tell me what you remember. Just think about it." Her tone was soothing, and I recalled the details of the dream, no, memory, that I had had. I closed my eyes, and as I did so, emotions came rushing towards me, filling me up.

"I was angry. I don't know why. But I couldn't control it. I was practically shaking. I kicked the bedpost, and it split. I threw things everywhere. A baseball. It dented the wall when I threw it, and it bounced back and almost hit me in the head. Instead it hit the mirror…" I paused, trying to remember what came next.

"The mirror." I repeated. "That's when I punched the mirror. It broke, and my knuckles got ripped up. A piece of glass fell on the dresser, and I slammed my hand down on it by accident. Then… Just blackness. When I woke up, I was here." I stopped, reveling in the fact that I had remembered. And it hadn't just been an outline of what had happened, but details. It was as though it had happened again in my mind. Andy was still watching me. "That's why the bed is unstable! They never fixed the post."

I watched as Andy turned around to look at the bedpost and saw her eyes widen in shock. "How do I know my mind didn't just make that story up?" She asked suspiciously. I answered back with another question.

"Where's the dent in the wall then?" She looked around, but couldn't find it. Finally, I pointed it out to her. It was close to the ceiling, straight across from the mirror. She gaped in astonishment. "But… I'm sure I hadn't seen that before you pointed it out to me." She backed away, putting her hands against the wall. Her eyes were wide, and she was shaking her head. "No. No, this isn't… How can this be? I…" She slid down the wall, eyes never leaving the mirror.

I watched her carefully, trying to be aware of any signs that she would run away again. But she looked as though she was rooted to the ground, her hands locked in fists, holding the tassels from the rug she was sitting on. I wanted to make it easier for her. I didn't like the thought that I was adding to her confusion.

"Look, when I first ended up here I believed it about as much as you do. Probably less actually. I've just, over time, come to accept it." She snorted. "What, so you want me to live in this room for eighty years or so just so that I'm not in a permanent state of denial." She looked as though she was about to add something else, but seemed to stop just in time, clamping her mouth down shut on the words. She let her head fall so that it rested on her knees.

"Stop it. Stop it, stop it, stop it." I barely heard this, and I doubted that she even realized she had said it out loud. She was talking to herself again, trying to make me go away.

"Andy?" She ignored me. "Look, Andy, you're my only shot at getting out of here. I don't know how or anything like that, but you have access to the outside world, to outside information. I promise you that if you help me get out of this mirror, I will foot the bill for any and all therapy you need later due to this incident." I was trying to make her laugh, but it seemed as though she couldn't hear me.

When she finally looked up, she seemed much calmer than she had been before. The mask she wore on her eyes had come back, seeming more reinforced than ever. She stared straight at me, determination etched in her face.

"No. You don't exist. You can't. And I'm not going to let this drive me over the edge."

Those were the last words I heard Andy speak in a week.

Over the next week, Andy completely ignored me, and though I doggedly filled every silence I could with mindless chatter, she didn't so much as glance my way once. She used the mirror in the bathroom to check her reflection, and the only thing I noticed that could have been an indicator that she really did believe I was there was that she changed her clothes in the bathroom with the door shut. The only time she spent in the room was at night when curfew restricted her from going anywhere else, and even then she went straight to bed, and mornings, between the time her alarm clock buzzed and the time she stumbled out the door headed for breakfast.

My emotions seemed to go up and down endlessly, from one end of the spectrum to the other. She would leave for class without a sidelong glance at me or at the mirror, and I would throw a tantrum, kicking walls, the bookcase, the bureau, the doors. After my blowup, I would slow down, falling into depression and hopelessness. Then Andy would come back in the room and my hopes would be re-inflated for a few moments. I would begin chattering immediately, not wanting Andy to have one moment where she was completely convinced I was gone. The biggest reaction I received for this treatment was a slight hardening of the determination etched in every pore of Andy's face.

Nights were when my emotions settled down, my time to plan how I would get Andy to believe in me again. _Not,_ I mused one night while I plotted, _that she ever totally believed in me in the first place._ I acted as if I was asleep, not wanting Andy to feel too uncomfortable, knowing that someone was watching her. She played the same game. One night, towards the middle of the week, I heard her crying. Another, I watched through slits in my eyelids as she got out of bed, lifted up a loose floorboard she had found a few days ago, one that I had known existed for decades, and reached in to pull something out from under it.

I wondered what she didn't want me to see. A box emerged, one with a lock keeping it shut, and I watched as Andy placed it carefully on the floor and moved over a few feet to a second loose floorboard. From this one, she pulled out an envelope, and she shook the contents into her hand. A small key had fallen into her grasp, and, after a quick and furtive glance at the door, Andy reached for a light switch, then thought better of it.

I smiled in appreciation of her cleverness when she retreated into the bathroom with her box and key so that no light would escape through the crack between the door and the floor into the hall. I watched as the door clicked shut and a light came on. Sure enough, I was the only one who could notice that light unless someone else came into the room.

I sighed and rolled over, trying to think some more about how I could really and truly convince her that I was real. What was something I knew that I could confirm and that she could never have figured out herself?

I knew nothing but my room, other than those two fleeting memories I'd had. I had memorized every inch of this room, every crack, every… everything! What wouldn't she have seen yet? It had to be big. The dent in the wall hadn't done it, but honestly, that was a little obvious. She obviously knew about the loose floorboard. Then it came to me. There was absolutely no way she could have seen it before. I mean, maybe I hadn't noticed when she hid her shoebox, but I would have noticed her moving the furniture.

I was just sizing up the bookcase; trying to remember how hard it was to move it last time I had a furniture-rearranging spree, which was a long time ago, when my mind hit a kink in my plan. "Shit." I said out loud, in a whisper, so that Andy wouldn't know I was awake. It didn't matter what I did; Andy had been ignoring me all week. What would convince her to give me a few minutes to prove I existed?

As my mind tried to work around this decent sized problem, the bathroom door opened, and I threw my head back on the pillow, trying to slow down my breathing. Once again I watched through slits in my eyelids as she turned off the light and closed the door behind her, lifted up the loose floorboard, and placed the box back inside. She stayed in a kneeling position in front of her hidden treasure, which now sat, open, in front of her. There was a moment before she broke the silence. She seemed to be directing her words at something I couldn't see in the palm of her hand.

"Goodnight Mom. I love you." In about a week of watching and listening to her, this was the most informative thing I'd heard so far, and in a flash, I knew why she looked so achingly familiar to me. What came next was barely a whisper, and I strained to hear it. "I'm sorry." Her eyes were filled with tears, and she opened her hand, holding it up to her head level.

A delicate gold chain now dangled from her fingers, and a locket hung at the level of her nose. It was a simple but beautiful, heart shaped, and she let it dangle for a few moments, staring at it, captivated, before taking the locket part gently in her other hand and bringing it closer to her mouth. She closed her eyes and whispered again, fast and furtively, words that I didn't catch. A tear fell from her lashes, and I seemed to watch it fall, in slow motion, to the floor. Andy kissed the locket and carefully placed it inside her box, first wrapping gently it in a piece of cloth.

It was then that I knew what I had to do. I knew it would hurt her, but it was the only way I could make sure she gave me the chance to prove what I needed to prove to her. I watched her, the only girl who'd ever seen me, and I hoped furtively that this would work. She brushed away the tears that had gathered on her cheeks and carefully closed her box before she let the floorboard come back down, locking her heart away in one simple movement.


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: It's been a long time, hasn't it? Well, this chapter is shorter than most of the other Andy chapters, but it's really intense, so be warned. Also, I changed a few things in the earlier Nate chapters to make it make more sense. It's really minor stuff, just a sentence got tweaked or added here and there, but it will make some things more clear. Thanks for taking the time to read this, and please review!!! Enjoy!**

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He almost had me when he pointed out the dent in the wall. I was almost sure I hadn't seen it before, and I said so. "But… I'm sure I hadn't seen that before you pointed it out to me." I backed up, scared and panicky, and braced myself against the wall for support. I stared at him, captivated. His eyes seemed determined and nervous at the same time, he seemed to be both pitying me and angry that I wasn't being accepting at the same time. His eyes entranced me; the conflicting emotions in them were fascinating, and again, I found myself wondering how on earth I could have made him up. My legs gave out, and I sank to the floor, shaking my head and muttering words of denial. 

His eyes seemed sad now. I hated him for it. I hated him for pitying me, for caring about me, because I knew that he wasn't real. I realized that this meant that I hated myself. I hated myself for making up this person, this seemingly kind and caring person, whom I could have grown to depend on and care about. I hated that it wasn't real. It couldn't have been real. I had unconsciously locked my hands into fists around the tassels from the rug on the floor. My hands were so tightly clenched that I could feel my nails digging into my palms, but I didn't let go.

When he spoke next, it was in a careful, calm tone. "Look, when I first ended up here I believed it about as much as you do. Probably less actually. I've just, over time, come to accept it." I snorted, and part of me was on the verge of hysterical tears while the other was merely skeptical. The skeptical me spoke: "What, so you want me to live in this room for eighty years or so just so that I'm not in a permanent state of denial?" A voice in the corner of my mind spoke; spewing angry, bitter, acidic words. _You already are in a permanent state of denial_. The words filled my mind and my mouth. I opened my mouth to speak them, but I knew I couldn't. I closed my eyes and clamped my mouth shut, trying to swallow back the words.

I let my head fall on my knees, and as I did so that voice in my mind grew louder and louder. It was like before, with Bryce. Part of me was conscious of where I was, and the other part, the bigger part, became enveloped in the grief and pain of a memory.

"It's your fault she's gone, all your fault, but do you accept it? Do you fess up to the fact that you killed her, you disgusting child? No!" The voice grew. I could smell alcohol on his breath, his face so close to mine, and he began to yell, choking back sobs. "I hate you! I hate you! Nobody cares about you! If she had cared about you, she would have stayed. She wouldn't have died! But you don't even apologize! You're just in denial! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!" Each sentence was punctuated with a slap. The words smashed into my mind almost as painfully as the blows raining down on me.

I was aware of the pain, both in my mind and my body, but at the same time I was aware of the real room I was sitting in, aware of a boy's eyes on me. I heard myself muttering. "Stop it. Stop it, stop it, stop it."

Then someone else's voice, cutting through the memory. "Andy?" A pause, and the yelling in my mind overtook me again. _I hate you._ "Look, Andy," _I hate you._ "… don't know how or anything…" _I HATE YOU!_ "… to the outside world, to outside information. I promise…" _Your fault._ "… me get out of this mirror…" _She would still be alive if it weren't for you, you…_ "… bill for any and all…" The transitions came faster, words swirling at incredible speeds within my mind. _Worthless…_ "… you need…" _hate, your fault, stupid…_ "… due to this…" _Your fault, all your fault!_

I gasped, and clenched my fists even tighter. Both voices were quiet. I opened my eyes to find myself staring at my own knees. I was aware of a stinging in my palms, and finally unclenched my fists, feeling a tacky smear of blood on my hands where my nails had punctured the skin. I counted again to make myself calm, to make myself stop trembling uncontrollably. This time I counted by elevens. 11, 22, 33, 44, 55, 66… It took longer this time to bring my breathing back to a normal pattern and for the numbers to completely fill my mind. I got to 8,228 before I was calm, and even then I kept going. I didn't stop until I had reached 11,000. I needed the calmness of a nice round number.

I looked up, and I knew my face was composed. I stared straight at the boy in the mirror. I refused to think of him as Nate. Giving him a name would have made him harder to ignore. I spoke, and when the words came out I was proud of how even the tone was, how calm and collected I sounded.

"No. You don't exist. You can't. And I'm not going to let this drive me over the edge."

After that, I acted as though Nate didn't exist. As though _it_ didn't exist. I constantly had to remind myself that _it _was not a _him_ or a person at all, and should not be thought of as such. There were times when I think unconsciously I was recognizing the fact that there was a boy in my mirror, like how I dressed and undressed in the bathroom, and especially at nights, when I listened hard for the sounds of even breaths coming from that general direction of the room before I would let my guard down and let myself cry. It was at night when I took the letters out from my backpack and tried to open them, ashamed at myself when my mind jumped to those flashbacks I'd had. I hid them. All of them. I couldn't stand to look at them, afraid of what they could contain. So I put them in a shoebox and shoved them under the bed.

All and all, however, I managed to do a pretty good job of ignoring him. I avoided being in my room as much as possible, probably to avoid Nate's constant chatter, which he kept up relentlessly whenever I was in the room, but I made excuses to myself for why I wasn't spending more time in my room. Because I spent so little time there, it was about five days after I had been put in the place that I finally unpacked. I waited, as I so often did, for the sounds of breathing to even out, and then quietly unpacked, hanging up blouses and skirts, stacking books on the bookshelf, and setting out my toiletries in the bathroom.

My trunk was almost empty now. Almost. I saw something box-shaped wrapped in a pillowcase, and it took me a moment before I remembered what it was. My trembling hands reached for it and pulled it onto my lap. I reached inside the pillowcase and pulled out two things: a box, and an envelope. The box was wooden, with intricate carvings all around the top, creating a beautiful design. A small silver padlock kept it shut, and I squeezed the envelope to reassure myself that the key was still safely inside.

I thought about opening it, and then hurriedly decided against it. I wanted to put it back in my trunk, but then realized that I had a better hiding place now. A few nights ago, I had discovered two loose floorboards, one by stubbing my toe on it, and the second by searching for it. I opened up both floorboards, and glanced at the hollow space just perfect for hiding secrets. I put the envelope in the first one, which was more out in the open, and put the box in the one that was better disguised, hidden under a rug.

I tried to forget about the box again. It haunted my mind for the next two days, and finally I reasoned to myself that it may help give me some closure about my father's sudden death. When I pulled it out, and went to turn on a light, I hesitated. Here was another moment where, unconsciously, I was admitting to the existence of _him_. I shook that thought off, reasoning that it was only logical to go into the bathroom to open the box so that if anyone walked by my room they wouldn't see the light on under the door. So I ducked into the bathroom, clutching both the key and the box close to my chest.

I won't describe the trip down memory lane I took in that bathroom that night. After I came out of the bathroom I kneeled in front of the floorboard that I had hidden my box in. I set the box inside and opened it, taking one last minute to stare at my locket. I held it in my hand in front of me, and I could feel my eyes burning, holding back tears as I stared at it. It was open, and staring up at me was the face of my mother. Emotions swarmed my mind, and I felt as thought I was going to burst if I held them in for one more moment. My fingers came close to brushing the glass in the locket, as though I could feel her cheek, or wrap my fingers around her long hair, or hear the laugh that was beautifully captured in the photograph. Instead, I closed the locket so I was staring at a piece of gold in the shape of a heart.

I couldn't hold it in anymore, and I spoke. For the first time in years, I spoke to my mother. Or at least, I came as close to speaking to her as I could have. "Goodnight Mom. I love you." My head was spinning, and I felt faint. I was choking back sobs. Regret, guilt, anger, grief, and many more emotions I couldn't decipher from one another blurred together, overwhelming me. Somehow, I managed to convey them all in two words, spoken in barely a whisper. "I'm sorry." My vision blurred, and I held up the locket so that the heart shape containing my mother dangled in front of my nose.

I held it there for a few moments before I spoke again. I closed my eyes and imagined that she could really hear me, and I brought the locket close to my lips, as if it were able to bring the words to her. "I'm sorry for what I did Mom. So sorry. Please don't be mad at me. It's my fault, it's all my fault. I wish you were here. It's my fault you're not." The words poured out of me, and I felt a tear roll down my cheek as I spoke, followed by another, and then another. I opened my eyes and pressed the locket to my lips, giving my mother a kiss goodnight.

. The tears continued to pour down my cheeks as I carefully rewrapped my locket in a piece of white silk and gently placed it back in my box. I wiped away the tears from my eyes and closed and locked my box, bringing the floorboard back down upon the hollow where it hid.

I spent the rest of the night crying in bed, and I felt immensely grateful that it was a Sunday when I woke up the next morning, groggy and disoriented. I went back to sleep and was planning on not getting up for a while.

While I was in the middle of carrying out this wonderful plan, I was rudely interrupted. I sat bolt upright in bed at the sound of something smashing against a wall. I looked around to see a bookcase being moved, smashing against the wall as it rocked back and forth. Nate looked over his shoulder to see me awake and smiled. That smile almost made me wish he was real. But it also almost made me wish I could slap him in the face for waking me up. I was way too tired, emotionally and physically, to concentrate on ignoring his chatty self.

"Oh good, you're awake." I didn't respond. I had to bite my tongue not to snap at him, but I didn't respond. "I wanted to show you something. To prove that I exist. I only need a few seconds, all you have to do is move your bookcase and I can show you this loose floorboard underneath it. I already know you can't have known it was there before, so it'll prove that I'm real." I ignored him again, but part of me wanted to yell at him. "Okay, fine. If that's not going to work, then you really leave me no option."

I grabbed a skirt and blouse from my closet and was halfway to the bathroom when he spoke again. "You take after your mother, you know." He said it nonchalantly, and it stopped me dead in my tracks. "Except for the eyes. I guess you have your father's eyes." My heart stopped, and I felt a lump in my throat.

"What did you just say?" My voice was thick with emotion. I still had my back to him.

"I said: you have your father's eyes. Andrew right? Andrew Rink? That's your dad's name? And your mother, she's Katy, right?" I shuddered all over. _How does he know?_ The question ran over and over in my mind, like a record that was skipping. I tried to shake it off. _Of course he knows, he's just a figment of your imagination and you knew that. You're only thinking of it now because of the stuff you looked at last night_. He kept talking.

"Did you know she went here? She actually lived in this room. Did you know that? I can prove it to you, if you'll give me the chance. Of course, if you want to go on ignoring me instead of learning everything you can about your mother you can. I don't imagine that there's any other way you'll find out about her now. I mean, she's dead, isn't she? I can tell by the way you talked to her last night. Her picture right, in the locket?"

Part of me wanted him to shut up but the other part kept me still, listening. "Three years, she lived here. And then she and your dad ran off and got married. I heard all about I from the next girl who lived here. She was your mom's best friend. Linda something or other. That was… Let's see, about sixteen years ago or so. Of course, you could find the exact date by looking in her diary. It's hidden under the loose floorboard under the bookcase. So what ever happened to your mom anyway? I liked her. How did she get along with a husband like him? I mean, he seemed like a nice enough guy, but he had a bit of a temper on him, didn't he? You tell me. Was he a good papa? Or did he hit you, just like he hit your mother?"

I snapped then. I whirled around to face him directly for the first time in a week.

"Shut up! You have no idea what you're talking about!" I had never felt this angry in my life. Cold fury pumped through my veins. The only thing was, I wasn't quite sure who I was mad at.

He tried to backtrack. It seemed he'd bit off more than he could chew. "Andy, I didn't know… I was only trying to…" Guilt and remorse were smeared across his face, pity and grief deep in his blue eyes. "He didn't hit your mother. I was only trying to get you to… But I didn't mean… He didn't really… And she…"

I couldn't bear it anymore. I was on the verge of tears, and I couldn't bear to be around him right then. I slammed the door and changed quickly in the bathroom, and then ran out of my room, heading for nowhere in particular. He called after me, but I was too far away in my mind to hear him. Once more, I found myself hating myself for making him up. I left the room, and found myself a corner to cry in. I slid down the wall, wishing with all my heart that he could be real, and at the same time, hating myself for even thinking that.

I cradled my head in my hands, unsure what to do. I could either go back to ignoring him entirely, or I could move the bookcase and find out whether or not my mother's diary was really there. If it was, then maybe there was something… supernatural... about the mirror, and maybe I wasn't making him up. If it wasn't there, I could go back to ignoring him entirely.

I couldn't bear the thought of trying, of trusting him, only to find nothing there. That would be the final sign that I had gone over the edge, and I couldn't bear the thought of building up such hopes and then falling like that. But what was worse: finding out that he wasn't real? Or not daring to find out for sure, and living out the rest of my life with that question eternally on my mind?

I sat there for what seemed like hours, weighing my options in my mind. The bell signaling the beginning of lunch rang, and I remembered that I had already received two warnings and that if I missed one more meal I would be "punished." Also, going to lunch gave me an excuse to give myself more time to think.

Lunch was inconsequential, and I regretted not having a book with me as I sat down at a table, an empty seat on either side of me, while groups of girls chatted happily around me. It was then, sitting in a room surrounded by hundreds of other girls, that I realized just how alone I really was. It was then that I realized just how small my world really was. It was then that I realized how much of a blessing it would be if Nate were real.

I laughed out loud then, overcome with emotion, and girls around me pointed and shot looks at me for disturbing their talk with my laughter. All I was to them was a freak. An orphan, a misfit, just another person to point and laugh at. Just another person to hate for no reason. And then I made my decision. I would find out, once and for all, whether or not I had even one person in my life.


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N:** **We're back in Nate's shoes. He's such a sweetie. I kind of love him. Yes, I'm in love with my own fictional character. Oh well... Anyway, please, please, please, review. I'm begging you. Reviews are what keep me going and what remind me that there are in fact other people who care when I don't update for a month. I'm very unreliable aren't I? I mean, there were about three weeks between chapters 4 and 5 and now I'm putting up chapter 6 the day after 5. ACK! **

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and thank you for taking the time to read cough review cough this story. : ) And special thanks to the few people who have reviewed! Your comments are very much appreciated!**

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Like I said, everything clicked when I heard her refer to the locket as "Mom." I realized then why she was so familiar. It was because her mother had gone here before her. Sixteen years ago, she had lived in the same room. I'd watched her mother for three years, before she dropped out of high school to marry Andrew, Andy's father. He had had the same dark green eyes. She had had the same hair, same face, same everything as her daughter. Except the eyes of course. There were minor differences. Andy's lips were fuller, her nose was smaller, her cheekbones more distinguished. But if I could have looked at Andy then and her mother at age 16, side by side, I would have been hard pressed to tell which was which. 

I don't know why I remembered Katy so distinctly. Maybe because she was so alive. She was so vibrant, and she seemed to have a smile permanently on her lips, a bounce always in her step. She was one of the few girls I enjoyed watching, simply because she made me feel alive as well. And that was something I rarely felt back then. But I did remember her. And I remembered how she had left her diary in its hiding place; left almost everything where it was and ran away. I remembered how I had grown to like Andrew as well. And how happy she always was with him, and how I watched, wishing that I could share such happiness with someone.

I didn't sleep for the rest of the night after I saw Andy with the locket. I was too busy trying to remember every last detail I could. I didn't want to hurt Andy, but if I didn't bring up her mother, then I had no way of getting her attention. I decided that I would try first just to show her the floorboard under the bookcase and that if that didn't work, I would say something, anything, about her mother and father. Something that would provoke her into responding.

She woke up almost immediately after I had started to move the bookcase. Perfect. I turned around when I heard her move and smiled. She didn't smile back, but fixed her stare at the wall across from her, and if looks could kill, that wall would be dead.

"Oh good, you're awake." She didn't respond. I wanted to scream at her, because right now, in that moment, I realized how thin the ice I was stepping on was. She was barely held together. I should have realized that before, but I didn't. "I wanted to show you something. To prove that I exist. I only need a few seconds, and all you have to do is move your bookcase and I can show you this loose floorboard underneath it. I already know you can't have known it was there before, so it'll prove that I'm real."

Again, I got no response. I knew then that it was now or never, do or die, or rather, do or never live. But I also knew that hearing about her mother could push her over the edge. She was so fragile, so breakable, it scared me. That was part of what was hidden under her eyes. The fragility. I realized what I was possibly choosing between was my sanity or her own. My "life" or hers. This could break her. But it could save me. I tried once more, fruitlessly, to get her to respond without saying what I needed to say.

"Okay, fine. If that's not going to work, then you really leave me no option." I hesitated, and as I did so she launched herself out of bed, grabbed a skirt and blouse from her closet, and got halfway to the bathroom. I made my choice. Right then and there, I made my choice.

"You take after your mother, you know." I tried to keep my voice calm and cool, almost nonchalant, but the fear was there, right underneath. I clenched my fists to stop my hands from trembling. She stopped the instant she registered what she heard. I kept going, hating myself as I did so. "Except for the eyes. I guess you have your father's eyes."

"What did you just say?" I could hear the raw emotion in her voice; hear the shaky quality to it. But I knew that I couldn't backtrack now, I couldn't try to save her. She had acknowledged me and now I had to make the most of it, I had to force her to see that I was real.

"I said: you have your father's eyes. Andrew, right? Andrew Rink? That's your dad's name? And your mother, she's Katy, right?" She shuddered, and my guilt intensified ten fold. But I kept going. I tried to stop the words, but I couldn't. They just kept coming.

"Did you know she went here? She actually lived in this room. Did you know that? I can prove it to you, if you'll give me the chance. Of course, if you want to go on ignoring me instead of learning everything you can about your mother you can. I don't imagine that there's any other way you'll find out about her now. I mean, she's dead, isn't she? I can tell by the way you talked to her last night. Her picture, right? In the locket?"

I continued, still hating myself for every word I spewed. I needed her to react, and so I grew more desperate, saying things I shouldn't have said. "Three years, she lived here. And then she and your dad ran off and got married. I heard all about it from the next girl who lived here. She was your mom's best friend. Linda something or other. That was… Let's see, about sixteen years ago or so. Of course, you could find the exact date by looking in her diary. It's hidden under the loose floorboard under the bookcase." I should have stopped there. That had been what I'd seen, it had all been true, but it got no response from Andy. I kept going, making things up as I went.

"So what ever happened to your mom anyway? I liked her. How did she get along with a husband like him? I mean, he seemed like a nice enough guy, but he had a bit of a temper on him, didn't he? You tell me. Was he a good papa? Or did he hit you, just like he hit your mother?" That did it. She whirled around, fury etched in her face. The emotions in her eyes overwhelmed me, and I wished I could have undone it.

"Shut up! You have no idea what you're talking about!" I could hear the raw anger in her voice, but underneath were layers of pain and sadness and fear. I knew from that voice that I had hit the nail on the head. I tried to backtrack, to undo what I had said, but I knew that it was too late.

"Andy, I didn't know… I was only trying to…" How could I tell her that I was only trying to help myself; that I was willing to hurt her, to lie to her, in order to get attention. "He didn't hit your mother. I was only trying to get you to… But I didn't mean… He didn't really… And she…" I trailed off. She looked as though she was about to cry, and she shut herself in the bathroom to get dressed, emerging quickly in her uniform.

"Andy, wait, I'm sorry, I…" I called after her, trailing off when she slammed the bedroom door behind her. I felt my legs give out from under me and I slid to the floor. I leant back, resting my head on the bookcase, and went over what had happened in my head. She was abused. That much I knew for sure. Her mother was dead. Her father… He really had seemed like nice guy. How could such a loving husband become an abusive father?

My fate now rested in the decision making skills of a girl I barely knew. I was struck with the realization that there was nothing I could do anymore. I could try to explain myself, but there was nothing I could really say that would erase what I'd already said. All I could hope for was that Andy would find the diary and come to terms with the fact that I existed. And then I could only hope that she wouldn't hate me.

I began to think, and for a long time, I pondered which would be worse: if Andy went back to ignoring me or moved out of the room, or if she accepted the fact that I was real and then hated me for what I said. The one thing I knew for sure was that if she gave me the chance, I would never hurt her again.

I thought over what had happened. My mind kept flashing back to Andy's expression right after I had accused her father of hitting her. It tortured me. Horrified me. No one deserved pain like that. No one deserved to feel terror like that. I felt my eyes stinging and it took me a while to realize I was crying. I hadn't cried since I was alive. I hadn't felt emotions strong enough to create tears in decades. And all it took was Andy's face. Seeing how hurt she was. I felt helpless. I wished I could stop her pain. I wished I could comfort her; make her feel safe. But what could I do; a mere reflection of someone who lived once.

I despised myself even more, realizing how I was expecting Andy to help me without getting anything in return. I had only thought of myself for these past eighty years. I had never wanted anything more than to be real again. To feel hunger, thirst, pain, to age, to die. I cursed fate. I found it despicable that the one girl who could help me was the real one who needed help. And I couldn't do anything for her.

I sat there, crying, for what seemed like hours. This week was the first in thousands that I had felt emotions for anyone other than myself, and it was somehow liberating. It gave me the knowledge that there was something, someone, to fight for. To keep my hopes up for. I knew in that moment that even if Andy went back to ignoring me, I would never forget her.

It was also in that moment that the door opened, and Andy herself came in the door. I bolted up, hastily wiping my eyes the sleeve of my jacket. She looked at me. She didn't look mad, or hurt, or sad. She just looked tired. That scared me more than any other emotion could have. It made me realize that what Andy did to deal with pain was to shove it all away. It made me realize that what I had said had really hurt her, because if it hadn't, something, anything, would have shown on her face. And that couldn't be healthy. That meant she was still on thin ice, and that anything I said could still shove her out farther, and that eventually, it would be too much and she would go beyond the point of no return.

"I've decided that it takes too much energy to ignore you to keep it up. But at the same time, I don't think I'm ready to find out for sure whether or not you're real. I think if I found out you weren't it would be too painful." She hesitated, as though she were going to add something, but then stopped. I nodded. "Andy, I'm… Really sorry." I said lamely. She nodded back. Her eyes welled up with tears, but she blinked them away.

"Yeah, well. Let's just drop it, okay?" I nodded, and she let out a shuddery sigh. "Thank you." I nodded again, not quite sure what to say. This wasn't remotely like any of the scenarios I had imagined. What was I supposed to do now? An awkward silence fell between us. Finally, she broke it.

"So, you knew my… my mother?" Her eyes were pleading. "Or at least, you… lived in close proximity to her for a few years?" I laughed a bit at how she had rephrased her question to fit the reality of the situation.

"Yeah, she… she was an amazing person. At least, from what I saw of her she was." Andy eagerly lapped up what I was telling her, and I continued. "She was so full of life. Just one of those happy people, you know? The kind of person everyone wanted to be around. She was one of the only girls who lived here who I didn't resent for not seeing me. I just… couldn't bring myself to resent someone so entirely good-hearted…" I went on to tell her all the happy memories I had witnessed during those three years. I talked for hours, and I was amazed at how much I could recall.

I told her about how her father had proposed to her mother; the story of which I only knew because Katy had spent a good hour with Linda something or other talking about how romantic it was in her room. I had barely gotten any sleep that night. I told her about the month when her mother had hidden a litter of abandon kittens she had found under her bed, and how she managed to keep them alive and healthy and find them all good homes. I left some things out. Like the day she got a letter from her parents and spent the whole night crying. I left out any and all painful memories, wanting to share with Andy the happiness of her mother's life without burdening her with any more sadness.

"And then, one day, soon after her father proposed, they eloped. She left school, left just about everything she owned behind, and got married. And that's when I stop knowing what happened." Andy smiled. "Thanks Nate. Even if it turns out that I just made all that up, it was… it was nice."

"It was no problem. My pleasure, really." I turned away from her, hiding under the pretense of getting ready for bed. Indeed, it was dark by now, but I felt her eyes following me across the room.

"Nate?" I turned back towards her. She was standing too, close to the mirror. I took a few steps nearer. "Yes?" I asked. She hesitated, and after a few long moments I turned back around. "Where exactly did you say that hidden floorboard was?" I tried to keep the surprise off my face, but failed miserably. She watched me, scrutinizing my expression carefully. I just stared back at her.

"Nate?" I shook myself out of my daze. "Third from the corner, under the bookcase." She nodded, and walked over, hesitating in front of the heavy shelves. "You don't have to do that for me." She turned towards me and gave an odd little smile. "I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it because I think you're someone I could…" She laughed a bit, embarrassed. "Because I think you're someone I could depend on. And if I do that, if I start to depend on you, and then find out that you're not real, I don't think I'd be able to stand it. So I need to find out right now. I could recover from a week, but… I know me. I know that if I don't take this chance now, I never will, and then one day you'll disappear and I'll be… I just… it's better this way."

I didn't argue. "So, basically, if you find the floorboard really is there, you'll believe that I'm real?" She nodded slowly. "Okay." I watched, almost holding my breath, as she slowly pulled all the books off the shelves to make it easier to move. Finally, she moved it. It seemed to take hours, and I was sure I was purple in the face by now. Once the bookcase was six feet away from the corner, she stopped and straightened up. She looked at me, and I couldn't mask the anticipation and nervousness in my eyes.

"Wait." I said, just as she was about to turn away. "If I'm wrong; if it's not there… Goodbye." I couldn't stop myself. I had decided that if she for some reason didn't find the floorboard then I would do my best to make it easier for her to deny my existence. If I needed to, I would live in my own bathroom. But I wouldn't force her to look at me, to listen to me, if she didn't want to. She gave me the tiniest of nods and slowly, trembling, walked over to the corner, which was occupied now only by lost possession such as mismatched socks and pencils coated in a thick layer of dust.

She knelt down in front of the floorboard I knew was hollowed out and looked at me for confirmation. I nodded, indicating that she had the right board. This time I really did hold my breath. She bent down, blocking my view, so I had to rely on sound alone. I heard the creaking as a floorboard came up, and then a loud sob. I watched in horror, sure that she wasn't going to accept my existence, as she reached into the hollow and picked up something I couldn't see.

The sobs came faster, and I heard a thunk as the floorboard came back down. Andy slowly turned around, a dusty journal clutched to her chest, tears streaming down her face. She had her arms wrapped around the diary, and her eyes were squeezed shut. My eyes absorbed everything, yearning for a hint to tip me off as to what Andy would do next. I was clueless. Her whole body trembled from the force of her sobs, and after a few minutes her breathing became slower, calmer. Tears still poured from her eyes, but she opened them, and stared straight ahead.

Suddenly her mouth broke into a shaky, watery smile. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, as if she were searching for the words to express her thoughts. Her eyes flitted up to meet my own, and she gave a tiny laugh.

"I'm not alone anymore. I'm not alone. Right?" She directed the question at me, and I felt my heart lift, as though a heavy weight had been lifted off it. Which it had. I nodded, smiling myself. "No Andy. You're not alone anymore. I'm here. I promise you, I'll always be here." She grinned, and squeezed her eyes shut.

"Thank you Mom. Thank you." She whispered furtively. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to gather her up in my arms, to reassure her that I would be there as long as she wanted me to be. In that moment, I realized that nothing in the world mattered more than her happiness.

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**AN: Okay. To my readers, I'm sorry, but this story is going on a hiatus until after November. This is because November is NANOWRIMO (National Novel Writing Month, for those who don't know) and I have to devote my time to the novel I'm writing for that. Sorry, but I promise, as soon as NANOWRIMO is done I will be back to writing and updating Father's Eyes. Just letting you know that no, I'm not ending it here nor am I abandoning it. I couldn't do that to Andy and Nate. Thanks!**

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